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User blog:SkyrimsShillelagh/Twelve Stars of Taneth: Chapter 11
Chapter 10 For those who are reading this and are curious, there are four more chapters after this. Chapter 11: The Candle in the Wind The two of them sat around a table in the townhall, dimly lit by candles positioned around the room. The clouds had never vanished from the sky. They hung there still. The town hall consisted of various furnishings they had scavenged from the village, making themselves a ramshackle base of sorts. It was the norm for Crimson and Shayera, the both of them finely adjusted to living on the road. Jeremias was in a constant state of frenzy, trying to keep the place in order. They said nothing. Instead, their thoughts went to what they had seen today. Crimson and Shayera had crested a dune, seeing a small shack in the distance, and once they had gotten close enough, lay low in the sand. A ritual circle was drawn in the hardpan, outlined by rocks. What plant life there was had died, turning gray and falling over. The soil itself had taken on a dull, muted color. Jasmin exited the shack, and Shayera rose, eager to confront her. Crimson caught her arm, and pointed, drawing Shayera’s arm to something she had missed. Obscured by shadows cast across the desert by the clouds up above, were a number of bodies. Lain side by side were men, women, and children of all ages. They had suffered all some manner of stab wound. A massive sword had been shoved through their chest, leaving a gaping hole behind, or perhaps a blade’s edge had opened their throat. They lay on their backs, eyes staring towards the sky. At a distance, one could just see a faint, dark glow emanating from their wounds and eyes, like a black light was shining out of them. “What is that?” Shayera asked, having no clue what to make of what she was seeing, and more than a little disturbed. “I’ve seen it once before. It’s a way for the Adversary to keep itself in the world.” She frowned back at him, laying low once again. “It can’t stay here for long. It just doesn’t belong. The rules of the world—how light hits an object, weight, the space something takes up—doesn’t apply to the Adversary. It gives it an advantage in the short term, but in the long term it means it’ll cease to exist on Nirn after a while. It puts like, I don’t know how to describe it, pieces of itself in people. Replaces their souls with its essence, or whatever.” “Why does it need so many?” “More it puts in the bodies, harder it is for the Adversary to leave. Reason your arrow actually managed to hurt it is because it was probably only invested in a soul gem or something. Once it racks up a bunch of bodies to stick itself in,” the vulgar insinuation was intended, “it’s pretty tough. Most I ever saw it use at once was twelve. Fifty? I figure we’re lucky Taneth isn’t a crater.” “So it’s here.” Shayera confirmed, scanning the area. “Where then?” “Hiding.” Crimson shrugged. “Decided it’d rather not exist right now. Doesn’t follow the rules as I said, it’s a right cheater. It can pop in and out of the world at will, once it’s strong enough.” “This is insane. So it’s like, what, the physical body of Sithis? What does it want with you?” “Probably came ta check out the charm for himself.” Shayera gave him a dour look. “I’d explain it to you if I understood it myself. Short version is it wants me dead. Long version is crazy.” Crimson understood it as this: his sword magic was blocked up like a bad poop, and as long as it was that way, the Adversary would have the hots for him. “So how are we going to beat it?” “Ask it really nicely to please stop. Thing’s be around for the last forty years, if anything, goes to show I know shit about fighting it.” “Then what do we do, if there’s no way to beat?” Shayera asked. “I ‘un know. Maybe we can question the guy watching us.” Shayera looked up sharply, turning her head side to side. “Where?” Crimson pointed behind himself, not even looking the direction. “He thinks he’s hidden real well ‘hind that rock. He don’t realize I got old man eyes. Seen everything, nothing escapes them.” The look he gave his daughter was meaningful. “You best keep ‘at in mind.” “Let’s just go see what he wants.” Shayera sighed. And so that was how Crimson and his mysterious new friend had ended up here, at the table. Shayera was out and about, Jeremias tending to some other portion of the townhall. The Imperial was in his late thirties, a tall, handsome lad. Crimson thought him oddly familiar, but couldn’t put his finger on where from. The single thing he’d said to Crimson on the walk back still had the Archer thinking. Crimson kicked back in his chair, lifting the front two legs of it off the ground. “You said I knew your mother.” “Yes.” The man said. “It hasn’t changed from the first three times you said that.” Crimson scratched his chin. “And she told ya to find me?” “No. But I heard about you often. She was very fond of you.” Crimson froze suddenly, looking at the man’s face with more security, perhaps he was familiar for that reason. He shook his head, leaning back again. “Not black enough.” He decided with a nod. “What?” “I said that’s interesting.” The Imperial shrugged. “She spoke about what a noble and forthright man King Sahir was. How his people would never truly appreciate the good fortune they had in gaining him.” “Properly noble and forthright, I am.” Crimson agreed, although he sensed a touch of dry humor in the man’s voice. It made Crimson want to smile. At the same time the man was sincere. They were silent a few moments more. Crimson pulled out his flask and idly unscrewed the cap. “What’s yer name, mate?” “Morgan.” “Don’t know any Morgans.” “You wouldn’t.” “Where do ya live?” “I lived in Kvatch.” “Kvatch.” Crimson repeated. A thousand memories popped up unbidden. Never had he been to that city, yet the name stirred every emotion in him. “How old are you?” Crimson asked. “37 inside the year.” “And yer all the way out here looking for King Sahir ‘cause he knew your mother.” Morgan shrugged, looking away. “Took trouble to track me down. Probably rode through the nights to get here to me in time.” “I slept a lot in the saddle.” Morgan answered, shrugging again. “Morgan of Kvatch.” Crimson mused, smiling to himself and leaning over the table, chair legs thumping against the ground. “I seem ta have involved a lot more people in this than I intended. You saw what was down there, undoubtedly ya heard what it is from me. You know what I intend to do tomorrow. Tell me, Morgan, what do you intend to do tomorrow?” “I’ll fight with you. I’m no stranger to fighting, or magic.” “And I suppose you’ll go down there with your magic and kill my daughter and wandering god?” Morgan said nothing. “Suppose that they were to kill you?” “Then I should be dead, King Sahir.” Morgan said. Crimson’s previous question seemed to have impressed something on him. It was that way a lot with people, Crimson had learned. They first found him a goof, but eventually they saw what lay deeper. You didn’t earn the respect of a mercenary company and then a kingdom by lacking a force of personality. “I see.” Morgan seemed uncertain, thinking he’d offended Crimson. “Should I go?” “No. Wait a minute. I want to talk to somebody, only my head is muddled.” “Do you need a glass of water?” Morgan suggested dryly. “Maybe the flask is too much.” “No.” Crimson held up a finger as he took a swig from said flask. “Sit down and try to listen. Can you understand thing when they’re said?” Morgan shrugged modestly. “I’m good at understanding.” “Could you understand it if I asked you not to fight tomorrow?” “I want to fight.” “Everyone wants to fight, Morgan, but nobody knows why. Suppose I were to ask you not to fight, as a special favor to the King? Would you do that?” “I’d do as I was told.” “Listen, then. Sit for a minute and I will tell you a story.” Crimson glanced off, seeing something that wasn’t there. “I’m a very old man, Morgan, and yer young. When you’re old, you’re going ta tell what I’ve told you tonight, I want you to do that. Do you understand this?” “I think so.” Morgan said. It was why he had come. “Put it like this. There was a king once, called King Sahir, that is me. When he came to the throne of Taneth, he found that all the kings and lord fighting against each other like madmen, and, as they could afford to fight in fancy suits of armour, there was practically nothing which could stop them from doing as they pleased. They did a lot of bad things, ‘cause they lived by force. Now this king had an idea, and the idea was that force ought to be used, if it were used at all, on behalf of justice, not on it’s own account. Follow this. He tought that if he could get his lords fighting for truth, and to help the weak, and to right wrongs, then their fighting might not be such a bad thing as it used to be. So he gathered together all people he thought he could, and he armored them, and he made them his lads, and taught them his idea, and set them down, and this was the Keshik. There were eighty of them at the start, and King Sahir loved the Keshik with all his heart. He was prouder of it, at times, than his own family, and for many years his Keshik went about killing monsters and rescuing ladies and saving prisoners, and trying to set the world to rights. That was the King’s idea.” “I think it was a good idea, my king.” Morgan said softly. “It was, and it was not.” Old King Sahir fell quiet, looking to the floor. Morgan lay a hand on the table, lifting his head, a question on his lips. “What happened to the King in the end?” “For some reason, things went wrong. His own blood betrayed his idea in the name of something they thought was greater. The Keshik split into factions, and later so did his kingdom, and a bitter war began.” Crimson shrugged. “All were killed.” “No,” Morgan interrupted, “not all. The King won. We shall win.” Crimson smiled vaguely, and shook his head. He would have nothing but the truth. He saw what lay behind that dune, what horror Jasmin had concocted, what horrors Crimson had inflicted on Hammerfell by allowing the Adversary to persist for his own selfish reasons. “Everybody was killed,” Crimson repeated, “except a certain young man. I know what I am talking about.” “My king?” “This young man was named Morgan of Kvatch, and the old King sent him off before the battle. You see, the King wanted there to be somebody left, who would remember their famous idea. He wanted badly that Morgan should go back to Cyrodiil, where he could grow into a man and live his life in peace—and he wanted him to tell everybody who would listen about this ancient idea, which both of them once thought was good. Do you think you could do that, Morgan, to please an old King?” Morgan’s eyes shown with the absolute truth. “I would do anything for King Sahir.” “That’s a good fellow. New listen, mate. Don’t get any of this muddled up, it’s me who’s tellin’ ya about my idea. It’s I who orders you to take a horse to Cyrodiil, and not fight with your magic tomorrow at all. Do you understand all this?” “Yes, King Sahir.” “Will you promise to take care of yourself afterward? Will you try to remember that you’re a kind of vessel to carry on this idea, for when things go wrong, and that everything depends on your survival?” “I will.” “it seems selfish of me to use you like this.” “Oh no, it’s a real honor for me.” Morgan smirked. “Morgan, my dream for Taneth and that Keshik was a sort of candle, like these ones here.” He gestured around the townhall. “I have carried it for many years with a hand to shield it from the wind. It has flickered often. I am giving you the candle now—you won’t let it out?” “It will burn.” “Good. Morgan the light-bringer. Got a ring to it, it does. How old did you say you were?” “Nearly thirty-seven.” “Sixty more years then. Half a century.” “I will give it to other people, King. Good, noble people.” “You’ll say to them in Cyrodiil: ‘Hey, that King Sahir knew how to make a damn fine candle, huh?’” Morgna grinned. “That I will.” “Then you must leave now, Morgan. Take the horse from the carriage and ride for Cyrodiil.” “I’ll go.” Morgan nodded. “To keep the candle burning, protect it from the wind.” “That’s a good lad.” Crimson smiled. He was burdened by age, but at last it felt something had been lifted from his shoulders. They rose, and clasped hands. “My king of Taneth.” Sahir grinned. “Lord Morgan of Cyrodiil.” And suddenly they were both more than they had been. ---- Aleera eyed the opposing army across the desert. Ten of thousands of men milled behind her. Hundreds of tents, thousands of horses, and dozen or so war camps for all the armies. Half of Hammerfell’s soldiers stood at her back, glittering in lacquered armors of red, green, gold, or swashes of color in fabrics of similar colors. Her dressed was tugged by the wind as it rolled over the plains. A nearly equal enemy force was across the several mile-long distance. “Going to be a good test of cavalry.” Conner mused, standing next to her. “Historians will use this battle for the next five generations to decide who fields the best mounted forces.” “They’re just going to charge each other?” Aleera said, imagining the sight. The desert might as well around be covered in blood. “Cavalry will. Infantry will be played more tactically. We sent the Keshik north, to harass them from behind as they came here.” Aleera shook her head. “I can’t believe it’s come to this.” “We’ll win, if that makes you feel any better.” Conner said. “It doesn’t. If everyone kills each other here, they’re be no one left to fight the Daedra. Whatever direction this battles goes, it’ll be a bloodbath. We need to move to new terrain.” “And give up the ground we already have? It’ll give them an opportunity to box us in, and move past us, cut off our supply lines. It’s just bad luck we ran into each other here.” “Some pretty fucking bad luck is right.” Aleera growled, thinking Conner was perhaps understating it. “We’ll dig trenches around the camp, and dig pits in the battlefield. Rest’ll be in the hands of the gods.” “I’d rather it be in mine.” Aleera said. “Perhaps you shouldn’t’ve sent dad away.” Conner gestured across the vast expanse of hard, cracked desert to the other army camp, a mirror image of their’s. “This is exactly what he’s good at.” “Which is exactly why we don’t need him. We have to prove we can do this on our own.” “Prove it with a hundred thousand lives?” Aleera shrugged. “If that’s what it takes.” She turned to him. “It’s your job to see it doesn’t come to that. We don’t need dad because he trained you himself. You’re good enough, Conner, accept that.” “Uh, thanks.” “Don’t let it go to your head.” She muttered as she brushed past, into the camp, her guards in their stark green uniforms falling in beside her. She was into the command tent within a ten-minute walk. “Lady Aleera.” The King of Rihad greeted her with a nod, and a sly smile. A handsome man, five years her senior, Rihad had a wiry build and hawkish features. Although not a hardened warrior, he was a reknowned duelist and skilled politician. Aleera rolled her eyes at him. Out of the rest of the monarchs, he was the only one she was truly familiar with, and it was a major regret of her’s. “We’re here to clean up Taneth’s mess.” The King of Dragonstar said, his voice a raspy nightmare. Old and bent, well into his nineties, Dragonstar was old school as far as monarchs went. He ruled fairly as an absolutionist and would only give up power when he finally bit the dust. His three sons were likely awaiting that moment anxiously. Aleera liked him. The King of Dragonstar was blunt, straight to the point, and had no patience for formalities. “Just as the treaties demand.” “And just as Taneth would be there cleaning up your mess. The Keshik haven’t operated solely inside our borders to combat the Daedra, nor any other threats that have arisen. Remember, that when these pacts were made between our kingdoms, it was Taneth who headed them, and it was because those at the time understood the value our support brings.” “I remember.” Dragonstar said, frowning. “It was thirty years ago when your father coerced me into his alliance amongst nations, and I have not regretted my decision. Yet.” “My king,” Aleera smiled dangerously, “believe me, regret will soon by the last thing on your mind.” ---- The old King felt refreshed, clear-headed, almost ready to begin again. There would be a day—there must be a day—when he would come back to Taneth with a new Keshik which that had no boundaries, as the world truly had none. So much of Crimson’s life had been running and fighting. He ran from his duties as prince. He led the Keshik through one battle after another. He spent the between part of his twenties fighting a secret war against a usurper. He ran from the Keshik when it had come apart, when his trusted lieutenant, Heartbender, had twisted what Crimson loved most into something that was almost unrecognizable. He had run from his duties as monarch when Juliette died. He had run from his duties as the Crimson Archer when the Hall of Virtues had burned. He would run no more. He would fight no more. It was too late for another effort here. For that time it was his destiny to die, or, as some say, to be carried off to Aetherius, where he could wait for better days. For that time, it was Shayera’s fate and Aleera’s fate to take up his mantle, while Jasmin must be slain. That fate of this man or that man was less than a drop in the great blue motion of the sunlit sea. The thunder of his Adversary was heavy in his ears, when his Majesty of Taneth drew himself up and meet the future with a peaceful heart. “Forty years I chase you.” The Adversary said, materializing from one of the many shadows as Crimson descended on Jasmin’s camp, the young woman watching in awe. The Archer was no longer that. His mask and cloak were gone, his sword shattered. His uniform was torn and ripped, faded with age. “And now you come to me.” “I figured I’d save us both the effort.” Crimson said, smiling. “I wonder if you do not have some other aim.” The Adversary said, approaching. “No aim.” Crimson said, glancing past him at Jasmin. “Well, not that kind of aim.” Hooves thundered in the background, one rider was charging for them at an immense speed. The Adversary drew closer. “What are you hoping to accomplish here? I am not easily deceived.” “That’s just it.” Crimson said. “You can’t believe I wouldn’t deceive you.” The bow and arrow were in his hands in an instant. The arrow was released, flying towards Jasmin. The girl’s eyes widened, frozen by surprise, as her own father tried to kill her. The Adversary’s hand flew out, and the arrow snapped in half harmlessly on its palm. “You…” Jasmin gasped, coming to senses. “You shot at me!” Crimson didn’t reply. He was looking at the Adversary. That hadn’t worked. It was alright. He hadn’t wanted it to. Crimson hadn’t had it in him to kill his own daughter, despite that it clearly needed to be done. But it hadn’t been why he’d come. “Fascinating.” Was all the creature said, as it summoned its sword. “Hurry up!” Jasmin growled, clearly upset at the attempt on her life. The sound of hooves on sand stopped as a woman astride a white stallion appeared from nowhere. The Adversary raised the sword to bring it down on Crimson. The Archer did not try to step out of the way, did not prepare to dodge, did not even close his eyes. He looked over at Shayera, who was staring on in horror, and gave her a smile. A whistle cracked through the air, and the woman was thrown free from the horse at her own command, sent through the air and then plummeting to the ground. She tucked herself into a practiced roll, and came up on her feet in front of her father. Her cavalry sword flashed from its sheath, and she raised it to meet the Adversary’s. Steel shattered, blade fragments flying. Shayera collapsed to the ground as she received dozens of puncture wounds across her body—her face, her neck, chest, and legs. “Shayera!” Crimson cried, any thought of self-sacrifice going out the window, as the dropped down next to her. His daughter looked up, blinking furious, choking on blood—one of the shards had found it’s way into her lungs. The Adversary was unfazed. It brought it’s sword back to kill them both. “No!” Jasmin shouted, storming forwards. “Only him!” “Our bargain was not exclusive.” The Adversary answered indifferently, bringing the sword downwards. A portal into Oblivion opened beneath it’s blade, shielding Crimson and Shayera. The creature tried to retreat, but it had already thrust up to it shoulder through the portal. There was a hissing sound, like steam leaving a kettle, as it was slowly pulled into Oblivion, tendrils of dark fogs bleeding into the whole. The Adversary turned what remained of it’s head to look at Jasmin. “How dare you break faith with me.” It’s distorted, inflectionless voice made it’s words all the more haunting. It wasn’t angry or surprised. It was merely a stating a fact. “This wasn’t part of the bargain.” Jasmin said, having planted her feet and aimed her hand at the creature. “There is no longer a bargain.” The Adversary stated. “And thus your destruction is warranted.” Jasmin collapsed her hand into a fist. The Adversary was sucked completely through the portal before it sealed shut behind the creature. She approached her father, kneeling over her wounded sister. He didn’t pay her attention. Jasmin casually waved her hand over the girl. Shayera stopped spasming as the pieces of sword slowly forced their way to the surface, and then her skin sealed behind them. Shayera sighed blissfully, and then passed out. Crimson blinked, coming to terms with what had just happened, and then turned to look back at his younger daughter. “Jasmin, I—“ His last conscious thought was noticing how fast her boot was flying towards his face. END OF PART 11 Chapter 12 Category:Blog posts Category:Stories Category:Twelve Stars of Taneth